The Most Beautiful Truth

I still believe in the very slim chanceI'll say something luckyenough to reach your truest insides, yourspirit, that you will hearand understand ascare on my part, evenif you can never quiteidentify me asits sender, that warm wind'sexact direction being mine, thatparticular sun's positionin the mind's endless sky,

that pinprick of that obvious of a star, the odd color of that flower's burst of smells, the meaningof happy enough tosmile without needing to know exactly why.If only there were wordsclever enough to flyall that over to you-- zooming in like a kite coming in for a big slice of freshly dyed in the wool blue sky. I'm the simple

string disappearing in mid air,I'mthe knotted fraying tail,snapping and glistening in the morning sun,I'm the triangle offragile diving paper swooshingabove your wonderfully wastedhead at least in all my best dreams so far, but I don't want to be the hero who hands it over to you, watchesyour lips moving in thanks, who sharesthat special movement withinyour smile with no other spaceto want to be falling into, all things in

their places starting to goaround only two persons like banded magnetized rings of pure delight, but I know the actualhour for me is getting pretty late. I'm older than you'll ever willingly stretchyourself into now to knowand younger than the oneyou're becoming. That's thecrack in our mirror, which meansthere can never bea clear enough picture for the both of us to inhabit together.

Oh you know it alright when you've gotyour hand on the hand thatshoves the knife in. I've onlyever wanted mineto say I am home inyour fact. I close my eyesand see your face lookinginto mine. That's a lightfor me that drives awayevery darkness there is.Evenon this blank page I'll seekthat most beautiful revelation

every single time I'm up

to the minute at bat with incoming flaming ball.

Bonus poems:

If the World's Still Turning Around

then I must have alreadybeen dropped off somewhere in a certain space and timebut I've no ideawhich way is home from here. A fieldis its own person. EvenI can see that.Youbring out the many wild horsesin me. Not sure ifthat's considered a good sign or a bad sin. Don't think so.Either way.Don't really care. It could be akind of gross joke I guess.I wouldn't be so crass.

One that I'll spend the restof my life trying toget at its sad meaning for me. Do wonder whoelse might be viewing this sideof this particularly shaded off to the one side moon and also who feels lostlike a piece of driftingstar drowning in a greenish brown bathtub. Probably the dream's ownair will become a mostcherished memory,too.As you might have have witnessed I'mnot so very good with all these words floating around in my brain here

that are supposed to somehow matter.As foolishas that sounds I've been trying my bestto tell you something true about my real feelings,something very deep having to dowith my being here and obviously also awareof your presence here. Nothingmasks the fact you're agood starting point to everythingI am hoping for.If I dream, you are the substance of that thoughtful meaningful glow, the image withinthe image, the cloud

behind all other clouds, light that lights all otherlight. I don't know if youare listening,if I am talking. If the world'sstill turning, I am lostwithout you by default.

Fun and All

It's true even if in that one moment of doubt there's

A freedom loving butterfly flying

Its own spiraling kite of dancer's legs like fireworks

Like shadow footprints across a flower field woven

Map and the next only a dull bird

Sitting on a sun wrecked drain pipe alone. Oh

It's true as you turn your back on the whole messy

Crowd of us. And it's true while you practice hitting

A pimpled ball into a tiny cupped hole

Better than anyone else in the office. It's true

Even if I suddenly become only

The dust of your once poet pal, Darryl

Price. It's true when they spike your news with

Reel poisonsbetween the sound bites. It's

True even as they pronounce that rock

Is finished and dead. It's not. Art survives in us and with us all the time there is.

Our daily lives are full of the meaning of rock. Someone starts tapping the sad frozen floor tiles with

Their wrecked and wanting shoes. Someone else makes a funny looking face out of a bunch of

Old newspaper clippings and lost in drawers feathers and spit right on the spot.

Someone then invents a new species of jumbled animal

Out of a handful of office supplies

And it all works beautifully. It makes perfect sense too.Life can

Be a moment of silliness from nothing. And the silly can make the

Pain subside to the background a little or a lot. Or maybe someone decides to

Break the stupidest rules and gives a big old hug where a big old

Hug has been long overdue, and needed the most. Well,knock me down you bunch of beautiful kangaroos.

It's true even if the poem fails to light.

Today I Met My heart

but she would not recognizeme as herself. She felt stirred internally I know butnot enough to acknowledge

the source as being in a direct linefrom my breath linked through time to hers;it was nowhere near lust,

closer to a foregone acceptance,some kind of absolutehome without any consent required, deep and profound, a connectionwithout a ritual, no first

trial; it just didn't fittheir molds and that left usangry at the stupid world; surprised us both all night long and well into our tomorrow.

Weather Report

When guys wearred ties theylook like walking thermometers.

Places Are Being Spoken Of

In exploding, spitting leaves this time of year. Another

Language that like every other tongue argues for

More existence please with lots of everything

In small regular doses on it--sun and wind and

Rain and room to throw one's full arms

Around each new blossoming day, but a deliberate

Emerald will green from within itself. Greed gets

You acquisitioned next to the wall. Someone

Is bound to have a pair of cruel enough

Scissors in their back pocket sooner or later with your name

On it. Is this what's happened to

Me then? I exploded over the allotted impossible time with

A beard twined with dozens of wild blue flowers and

Swept the local moths into a volcanic

Disappearance of dust-like proportions which choked apart

Any chance of making new friends with

The surrounding scenery? Too bad. I couldn't

Help filling my legs up with all

That freshly boiled pleasures and carrying it back

To the hive of my purest dreams

For later offering to the Muse herself,

An organic moisturizer she might easily dab

On between gigs as a silvery pulsating

Star or the mature breasts of the

Moon goddess. Let us celebrate moments like

These that conquer us so elegantly. Why

Let the circles close in all around

Us when we are made of the same

Stuff that keeps strumming in the

Eternal one's palmed ear canals

as she dreams of a deep relaxing sleep anyhow?

Darryl Price

05/30/11

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Author's Note

Rereading this piece I'm glad to see I was in the right state of mind to create it and not let it fall over to despair.

The Most Beautiful Truth,If the World's Still Turning, and Fun and All were all picked up for publication by Characteri.com.

"Places Are Spoken Of" was picked up for publication at The Camel Saloon.